MEMORIAL 


AND  OTHER  VERSE 

-  .  .  _-      JT  — 

HBLEN-LEAH-REEO 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


MEMORIAL  DAY 
AND  OTHER  VERSE 


MEMORIAL  DAY 

AND  OTHER  VERSE 

(ORIGINAL   AND    TRANSLATED) 


BY 

HELEN  LEAH  REED 

AUTHOR   OF    SERBIA;    A    SKETCH 

NAPOLEON'S  YOUNG  NEIGHBOR 

THE  BRENDA  SERIES,  ETC. 


DE  WOLFE  AND  FISKE  CO. 

20  FRANKLIN  ST. 

BOSTON 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY 
HELEN  LEAH  REED 


Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall 


This  book  is  sold  for  the  benefit  of  work  for  blinded  soldiers 


THE-PLIMPTON-PBESS 
NORWOOD-MAS  S-U-S-A 


P5 


TO    THE    MEMORY    OF 

THOMAS  WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON 

SOLDIER,    SCHOLAR,   FRIEND 


626190 


The  author  'thanks  the  editors  of  the  following 
publications  for  the  right  to  reprint  certain  poems 
of  hers  that  they  first  published: 

Scribner's  Magazine,  Horace  111-29.  Collier's  Weekly, 
Horace  1-14.  Poet  Lore,  Horace  1-11.  Chicago  Inlerocean, 
The  Fading  Vision.  The  Christian  Union,  Jack  Frost  and 
the  Flowers.  New  York  Sun,  The  .  Rivals.  Metropolitan 
Magazine,  Strength  Renewed.  Christian  Endeavor  World, 
Town  and  Country.  Boston  Transcript,  Summer  in  London; 
His  Monument;  Memorial  Day.  Boston  Herald,  The  Cry  of 
the  Women.  Ladies'  Home  Journal,  The  Christmas  Letter. 
Woman's  Home  Companion,  Frightened.  The  Delineator, 
The  Victim;  A  Modern  Grandmother.  The  Youth's  Com 
panion,  A  Curiosity. 


CONTENTS 

i 

PATRIOTIC  AND  SERIOUS 

PAGE 

Memorial  Day 2 

Flowers  for  the  Brave 

His  Monument 

your  Country  and  Mine     

The  Grand  Army  Passes 6 

The  Harvard  Regiment 

Summer  in  London g 

Serbia o 

Canadian  Trooper  to  Hw  Horse 1Q 

The  Cry  of  the  Women ^ 

Cassandra      -^2 

Song  of  Spring      12 

Life  and  Death      ^ 

Man  of  Today      14 

The  Fading  Vision 15 

The  Titanw 16 

//  Love  were  All ^ 

The  Raven 17 

Ah!  Little  Lake        18 

Severus 19 

Town  and  Country 2Q 

Strength  Renewed 2Q 

At  Miami      21 

Which 22 

The  Bkssed  Dead 22 

Oak  Leaves 2j 

Self-satisfied      23 

My  Vigil 24 

To  Mrs.  Julia  Ward  Howe 24 

TheSoarer 25 

A  Fancy 25 

The  Shrieking  Woman 26 

The  Huguenot  Lovers 27 

To  John  Townsend  Trowbndge 2? 

Weed  or  Flower 28 

To  Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson      .... 


II 

LIGHTER   VERSE 

PAGE 

Frightened 31 

The  Christmas  Letter 32 

A  Victim 33 

Jack  Frost 34 

A  Curiosity 35 

The  First  Lie 35 

The  Parasol 36 

A  Modern  Grandmotlier 37 

Signs  for  the  Serious 38 

Trimming 39 

The  Annex 40 

A  Liberty  Bond 41 

A  Hero 42 

The  Rivals  44 


FROM  THE  ODES  OF  HORACE 

To  Maecenas 47 

To  Leuconoe      49 

Neobule      49 

The  Hardy  Youth 50 

To  the  State 51 

To  Apollo 52 

To  Diana 52 

To  Melpomene 53 

Horace  and  Lydia 54 

To  Censorinus      55 

To  Thaliarchus 56 

To  Chloe 56 

ToFuscus 57 

To  Venus 57 

A  Palinode 58 

Lasting  Fame 59 

Religion     . 59 


[  vui] 


PATRIOTIC  AND  SERIOUS 


MEMORIAL  DAY 

NO  warrior  he,  a  village  lad, 
needing  nor  words  nor  other  prod 
To  point  his  duty;  he  was  glad 

to  tread  the  path  his  fathers  trod. 
Week  days  he  worked  in  wood  and  field; 

with  homely  joys  he  decked  his  life; 
The  sword  of  hate  he  would  not  wield, 

nor  take  a  part  in  cankering  strife. 
On  Sunday  in  the  little  choir 

he  sang  of  Peace  and  brotherly  love, 
And  as  his  thoughts  soared  higher  and  higher, 

they  reached  unmeasured  heights  above. 

A  cry  for  Freedom  rent  the  Land  — 

"Our  Country  calls,  come,  come,  'tis  War; 
Together  let  us  firmly  stand; " 

he  answered,  though  his  heart  beat  sore 
At  leaving  home,  and  kin,  and  one 

in  whose  fond  eyes  too  late  he  read 
That  life  for  her  had  but  begun 

with  the  farewells  he  sadly  said. 

A  half  a  century  has  passed  — 

and  more  —  since  all  those  myriads  fell; 
For  he  was  one  of  those  who  cast 

sweet  life  into  a  Battle's  hell. 
The  village  has  become  a  town, 

brick  buildings  the  old  graveyard  gird; 
Of  him  who  fought  not  for  renown, 

no  one  now  hears  a  spoken  word, 
But  on  the  Monument  his  name 

in  gold  is  lettered  with  the  rest. 
Without  a  sordid  thought  of  fame 

he  to  his  Country  gave  his  best. 

[13 


Strew  flowers,  then,  Memorial  Day 

for  him,  for  all  who  for  us  fought. 
With  speech  and  music  honors  pay; 

teach  what  our  brave  defenders  taught. 
And  now  our  sons  are  setting  out; 

the  call  for  Right  rings  to  the  sky, 
"Our  Country!  Freedom!"  hear  them  shout, 

re-echoing  their  Grandsires'  cry. 


FLOWERS  FOR  BRAVE  SOLDIERS 

T^LOWERS  for  brave  soldiers, 
JL     Flowers  for  those  who  gave  us 

A  Country  undivided. 

Flowers  for  the  dead! 

With  flags  we  are  marking 
Their  last  earth-dwelling. 
Our  hearts  are  bending 
In  gratitude, 
While  we  are  praying 
That  this  our  Nation 
Pass  safe  through  peril, 
Through  deadly  war. 

Flowers  for  brave  soldiers  — 
Flowers  for  those  who  loved  us, 
Flowers  to  their  memory, 
This  fair  spring  day! 


[2] 


HIS  MONUMENT 

FROM  top  to  pedestal  you  scan  it  lightly  — 
Capped  head  to  lettered  base — and  you  are  smiling. 
What  see  you  there  to  set  your  lips  a-quiver? 
An  awkward  figure  cut  from  ugly  granite, 
Aye,  roughly  hewn,  as  if  unhelped  by  chisel, 
This  peaceful  man  of  war,  sculptured  grotesquely. 
Still  —  there  is  metal  in  the  gun  he  is  holding, 
And  in  the  cannon  balls  piled  up  before  him  — 
The  artist's  symbols  of  a  real  soldier. 
Yet  jeer  no  longer! 
Before  you  is  a  soldier  of  the  Union, 
Crowned   with  the   tears   and   prayers   of    many 

mourners. 

The  Village  set  him  here  for  all  to  honor, 
Here,  in  the  centre  of  their  foot-worn  common, 
Where  on  long,  summer  evenings  boys  at  baseball 
May  gaze  and  gaze,  and  make  him  an  example; 
A  hero  they  would  follow. 
Beholding  him  I  see  no  granite  figure, 
But  face  a  man  who  fought  to  save  his  country, 
Whose  heart  was  pierced  when  wife,  and  child  and 

mother 

Clung  to  him  closely  in  that  tearful  parting. 
Yet  brave  he  marched  away  while  flags  were  flut 
tering, 

Though  in  his  soul  he  knew  that  never,  never, 
Might  he  again  see  those  he  loved  so  dearly, 
Nor  look  again  upon  the  old  white  steeple, 
Upon  the  little  streets  and  shabby  buildings 
Straggling  unevenly  toward  the  Common; 
Or  if  he  came  back,  he'd  be  maimed  and  battered, 
Subject  to  hateful  pity. 

Therefore  I  smile  not  at  the  queer,  gaunt  figure, 
The  tilted  cap  —  the  wide  and  baggy  trousers, 
The  long  loose  overcoat,  the  dangling  knapsack, 
This  is  the  man  who  fought  to  save  our  country! 
Who,  in  his  millions,  marched  from  every  village, 
From  every  city  of  our  mighty  Nation; 

[3] 


Who    heard    the    drums    and    trumpets    blithely 

playing  — 

"Tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  the  boys  are  marching." 
So  there  it  stands  —  thank-offering  of  a  people  — 
Whether  of  rough-hewn  stone,  or  bronze,  or  marble  — 
Proving  our  debt  to  those  who  saved  the  Union, 
Pointing  the  way  for  those  who'd  like  to  follow  — 
Who  to  the  death  would  fight  were  we  in  peril  — 
The  Soldier's  Monument! 


YOUR  COUNTRY  AND  MINE 

SING  of  America,  sing  of  our  Country! 
Land  of  two  oceans,  of  palm-tree  and  pine! 
Firm  as  the  rock  of  her  towering  mountains, 
Free  as  her  rivers  from  Heaven-born  foun 
tains, 

Unafraid  as  her  eagle,  —  as  true  to  the  line; 
Sing  of  our  Country,  —  your  Country  and  mine  I 
Sing  of  America,  —  self-governed  Country  I 
Dear  Land,  thou  to  tyranny  never  wilt  bow; 
Ever  with  thee  the  oppressed  have  had  haven ; 
While  Freedom  droops,  thy  true  sons  are  not 

craven; 

Look!  They  are  fighting  to  honor  thee  now, 
With  Victory  and  Peace  to  bejewel  thy  brow. 
Sing  of  America,  —  loving  humanity ! 
"  Avenge  ye  the  slaughtered ! "  Heed  ye  her  decree ; 
Ye  who  have  reaped  of  the  father's  brave  sowing, 
High  hold  your  flag  when  the  war  winds  are 

blowing! 

Safe  for  all  men  keep  the  path  of  the  sea; 
Secure  in  their  rights  help  small  Nations  to  be. 
Fight  for  America,  noble  America! 
Liberty,  Justice,  and  Truth  —  the  divine, — 
Carrying  onward,  — her  lamp  proudly  burning  — 
Craving  no  empire,  intrigue  ever  spurning, 
Over  the  Earth  shall  ber  beacon-light  shine! 
Fight  for  our  Country,  your  Country  and  mine! 
[43 


THE  GRAND  ARMY  PASSES 

BEHOLD  a  long  procession  passing  proudly, 
And  yet  no  glittering  pomp  adorns  its  way, 
Only  the  emblems  of  our  States  and  Nation, 
Only  the  flags  that  floated  on  the  day 
These  men,  our  men,  trod  upon  fields  of  glory ;  — 
The  tattered  flags  that  this  Grand  Army  bore 
For  the  Republic  —  flags  that  furled  and  faded 
To  their  old  vividness  our  hearts  restore. 
The  line  of  veterans  once  firm  and  crowded, 
The  long,  long  line  is  wavering  and  thin ; 
With  faltering  steps  Old  Age  speaks  mutely  to  them 
Youth  marched  abreast  when  they  were  mustered  in. 

Oh,  Comrades  of  the  Campfire  and  the  Council, 

Oh,  Comrades  who  in  peril  won  your  fight ! 

Honor  to  you  and  to  your  dead  companions, 

You  risked  your  all  for  Liberty  and  Right  I 

Fraternity  and  Charity  your  watchwords, 

And  Loyalty  to  this  our  own  dear  Land ! 

Our  flag  you  have,  the  brazen  star,  the  eagle 

Undying  symbols  for  your  gallant  band. 

Look  at  them,  youths  and  maidens,  as  they  pass  you, 

While  old-time  war-tunes  break  upon  the  air, 

And  staring  crowds  applaud ;  read  ye  the  message 

That  from  the  past  these  veterans  nobly  bear, 

"  Our  gift  —  the  gift  of  Freedom  to  the  Nation, 

Our  great  Republic  would  entrust  to  you, 

Cherish  it  fondly,  keeping  it  untarnished, 

That,  in  the  Future,  looming  on  our  view, 

You  with  the  World  may  share  your  gift  of  Freedom.' 

This  is  the  message  that  our  youth  must  con, 
While  the  Grand  Army,  answering  its  last  roll-call 
And  laying  down  life's  weapons,  passes  on. 


[5] 


THE  HARVARD  REGIMENT 

WE  saw  the  Regiment,  alert  and  strong, 
In  marching  line,  on  Soldiers'  Field  today 
Ah!  ready  they  to  battle  with  the  wrong,  — 
This  flower  of  youth  —  eager  and  brave  and  gay. 

And  we>  on-looking,  cheered  them  as  they  passed, 
And  we,  down-heartened,  prayed  a  silent  prayer 

uazmg  upon  them  with  a  grim  forecast, 
And  many  a  sad-eyed  mother  watched  them  there. 

Proudly  they  turned,  and  at  attention  stood, 
Or  shouldered  arms  while  war-like  music  thrilled. 
Alas!  '   we  listened  in  unhappy  mood! 
"Why  should  these   boys   in   martial  ways  be 
skilled?  " 

No  comfort  for  our  grieving  was  revealed, 
Until  we  looked  across  the  valiant  line 

To  the  old  College,  far  beyond  this  Field 
That  honors  men  who  fell  at  Freedom's  shrine. 

"Oh,  ancient  College,  that  so  long  hast  bred 
Son  after  son  to  heed  his  Country's  call. 

The  answer  to  our  questionings  is  read  - 
In  yonder  Tower  of  your  Memorial  Hall." 


[6] 


SUMMER  IN  LONDON 

OH,  the  noise  of  Piccadilly  —  its  rumble  and  its 
roar! 

A  tide  of  life's  broad  ocean  surging  toward  the  shore. 
Who  once  has  listened,  ever  can  hear  its  long  refrain 
With  haunting  echo  drowning  or  dirge  or  flaunting 

strain. 
Who  heeds  it,  in  his  vision  may  see  a  world-throng 

pass  — 
And  over  there  the  Green  Park  with  laughing  lad 

and  lass; 
While  weary  men  and  women  and  careless  youth 

goby, 
Where  windows  glow  and  glitter ,  and  in  the  evening 

sky 
A  crescent  moon  is  watching  the  laughing  lass  and 

lad. 
The  long,  warm  London  twilight!  Happy  they  are, 

though  sad. 
With  kiss  and  tear  they  are  parting.  Tis  late  —  the 

rush  and  roar  — 
The  life  of  Picadilly  is  waning  —  is  no  more. 

Ah,  the  dark,  the  cold,  the  stillness  of  the  trenches 

in  the  night, 
Where  freezing  men  are  crouching  in  the  lull  before 

the  fight. 
Then  for  one  the  calm  is  broken  by  the  rumble  and 

the  roar 

Of  far-off  Picadilly,  and  in  dreams,  as  oft  before, 
He  sees  her  who  wept  at  parting.    What  was  that? 

A  whining  shell? 
Once  a  man  —  that  huddled  horror!  He  was  smiling 

as  he  fell. 

Summer  has  returned  to  London.  Now  the  Green 
Park  gleams  anew. 

Cheers  and  tears  together  mingle  —  but  the  break 
ing  heart  beats  true. 

C7] 


Blare  of  trumpet!  —  blood  and  fire  I  —  so  her  hero 

marched  away. 
Happy  lad  and  lass  they  parted  —  now  the  pitying 

sky  is  gray. 
Blood  and  fire!    Through  its  heroes  shall  a  nation 

live  again. 
Blare  of  trumpet!    But  in  silence  aching  hearts  must 

bear  their  pain. 
Ah,  the  stillness  of  the  trenches!  ah,  the  rumble  and 

the  roar! 
Cheers  and  tears  by  England  offered  for  the  lads 

who  come  no  more. 
1915 


SERBIA 

SERBIA,  valiant  daughter  of  the  Ages, 
Happiness  and  light  should  be  thy  portion! 
Yet  thy  day  is  dimmed,  thine  heart  is  heavy; 
Long  hast  thou  endured  —  a  little  longer 
Bear  thy  burden,  for  a  fair  to-morrow 
Soon  will  gleam  upon  thy  flower-spread  valleys, 
Soon  will  brighten  all  thy  shadowy  mountains; 
Soon  will  sparkle  on  thy  foaming  torrents 
Rushing  toward  the  world  beyond  thy  rivers. 
Bulgar,  Turk  and  Magyar  long  assailed  thee. 
Now  the  Teuton's  cruel  hand  is  on  thee 
Though  he  break  thy  heart  and  rack  thy  body, 
'Tis  not  his  to  crush  thy  lofty  spirit. 
Serbia  cannot  die.     She  lives  immortal, 
Serbia  —  all  thy  loyal  men  bring  comfort 
Fighting,  fighting,  and  thy  far-flung  banner 
Blazons  to  the  world  thy  high  endeavor, 

-  This  thy  strife  for  brotherhood  and  freedom  - 
Like  an  air-free  bird  unknowing  bondage, 
Soaring  far  from  carnage,  smoke  and  tumult, 
Serbia  —  thy  soul  shall  live  forever! 
Serbia,  undaunted  is,  immortal! 

[8] 


A  CANADIAN  TROOPER  TO  HIS  HORSE 

REST  here,  my  horse,  the  night  is  dull,  —  the 
blood-sick  stars  are  gone, 

Listen,  for  thou  like  me  wert  bred  in  far  Saskat 
chewan. 

And  this  September  night  at  home,  under  a  happier 
sky, 

The  bursting  yellow  sheaves  upon  the  unbounded 
prairie  lie. 

Bread,  bread  —  the  staff  and  stay  of  life  —  'tis  what 
the  wheatlands  yield; 

But  only  death  and  agony  are  gathered  from  this 
field. 

There's  respite  now,  but  ah!  good  friend,  before 

another  day, 
Although  our  bodies  may  be  here,  we,  we,  how  far 

away! 
We've  ridden  many  a  weary  mile,  together  we  have 

fought 
For  Freedom,  honor  and  the  right,  and  anything 

we've  wrought 
Our  Country  to  the  Empire  will  still  more  closely 

bind. 
Ah!  where  the  reddened  maple  leaf  is  fluttering  in 

the  wind, 
There  is  my  heart,  oh  noble  horse,  and  may  we  gallop 

free 
Some  day  again  in  Canada,  our  Land  of  Liberty. 

The  night  drags  on  toward  the  dawn,  and  far  on 

yonder  plain 

I  hear  the  throb  of  musketry,  I  feel  its  echoing  pain. 
I  see  the  star-shells  breaking,  and  nearer  than  their 

flare, 
A  wreath  of  deadly  smoke  points  out  that  once  a 

town  was  there. 
Look,  brother  horse,  the  night  is  past,  and  glorious 

is  the  dawn, 

m 


Away  with  peril!  We'll  ride  on  for  our  Saskat 
chewan. 

With  day  comes  hope,  and  though  again  the  sky  with 
blood  is  red, 

We'll  ride  against  the  enemy,  for  Victory  lies  ahead, 

Ayel  for  the  Empire  —  Victory  that  thou  shalt  help 
to  bring. 

And  for  the  Allies  Victory  —  on  earth  what  greater 
thing! 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  WOMEN 

ANEW  YEAR  dawning  on  a  warring  world! 
And  many  fight,  and  many  pray  for  peace; 
But  yet  the  roar  of  battle  will  not  cease, 
Still  man  against  his  brother  man  is  hurled. 

So  we  who  wait  —  we  women  in  our  woe, 
Who  wait  and  work  —  who  wait,  and  work,  and 

weep  — 
,  For  us  there  is  no  rest,  for  us  no  sleep, 

As  our  sad  thoughts  are  wandering  grim  and  slow, 

Across  those  dreary  fields  where  far  away 
Our  hero  myriads  bleed  and  burn  and  die, 
We  lift  our  hearts  toward  the  pitying  sky  - 

Dawns  there  no  hope  upon  this  New  Year's  day? 

1915 


[10] 


CASSANDRA 

OF  all  the  luckless  women  ever  bora, 
Or  ever  to  be  born  here  on  our  earth, 

Most  pitied  be  Cassandra,  from  her  birth 
Condemned  to  woes  unearned  by  her.    Forlorn, 
She  early  read  great  Ilium's  doom,  and  tried, 

Clear-eyed,  clear-voiced,  her  countrymen  to  warn. 

But  —  she  Apollo's  passion  in  high  scorn 
Had  once  repelled,  and  of  his  injured  pride 
The  God  for  her  had  bred  this  punishment,  — 

That  good,  or  bad,  all  things  she  prophesied 

Though  true  as  truth,  should  ever  be  decried 
And  flouted  by  the  people.    As  she  went 
Far  from  old  Priam's  gates  among  the  crowd, 

To  save  her  country  was  her  heart  intent. 

Pure,  fearless,  on  an  holy  errand  bent, 
They  called  her  "mad,"  who  was  a  Princess  proud. 
"Alas,  the  City  falls!    Beware  the  horse! 

Woe,  woe,  the  Greeks!"    Ah!  why  was  she 
endowed 

With  this  sad  gift?    Able  to  pierce  the  cloud 
That  veils  the  future,  —  in  its  wasting  course 
She  could  not  stop  the  storm.    Bitter  the  pain 

When   those   she   loved    and   trusted  —  weak 
resource  — 

Her  prophecies  believed  not;  when  the  force 
Of  all  her  pleading  spent  itself  in  vain. 
Poor  Maid!    She  knew  no  greater  agony 

When  dragged  a  slave  in  Agamemnon's  train. 

And  though  she  fell  —  by  Clytemnestra  slain  — 
She  smiled  on  Death  who  eased  her  misery. 
For  oh  —  what  grief  to  one  of  faithful  heart 

It  is  —  to  know  the  evils  that  must  be. 

Helpless  their  doom  to  make  the  imperilled  see, 
Unskilled  to  shield  them  from  the  fatal  dart! 


[11] 


SONG  OF  SPRING 

ON  every  bush  are  roses  blooming,  everywhere  the 
nightingale 
To  his  love  again  is  warbling  plaintively  his  oft-told 

tale. 
Now  within  our  balmy  garden  dances  the  tall  cypress 

tree, 
And  the  poplar  never  ceases  clapping  his  slim  hands 

in  glee. 
From  the  height  of  every  bough-tip  you  can  hear  the 

turtle  sing, 
With  loud  voice  proclaiming  gaily  the  glad  coming  of 

the  spring. 
On  the  head  of  the  narcissus  gleams  as  bright  his 

diadem, 
As  the  crown  of  China's  Emperor  decked  with  many 

a  costly  gem. 
Here  the  west  wind,  there  the  north  wind,  in  true 

token  of  their  love, 
At  the  feet  of  yonder  rose  lay  treasure  poured  down 

from  above. 
All  the  earth  with  musk  is  scented,  and  musk-laden 

is  the  aii-. 
Everything  proclaims  that  daily  now  draws  nearer 

spring  the  fair. 

(Versified  from  a  Persian  paraphrase.) 


LIFE  AND  DEATH 

DEATH  after  life"  shall  we  sigh  as  we  say  it, 
Sigh  as  if  death  were  the  end  for  us  all, 
Pale  at  the  thought,  as  in  silence  we  weigh  it, 
Yield  our  dull  souls  to  it,  bending  in  thrall? 

"Life  after  death"  —  look  ahead,  weakling  spirit 
Sure  is  the  way  to  a  world  that  is  ours. 

Death  is  fruition,  why  then  should  we  fear  it? 
Death  —  the  fruition  of  life's  budding  powers. 
[12] 


MAN  OF  TODAY 

FOR  thee  he  thought, 
The  Greek,  who  by  the  sea 
Lay  in  his  lithe-limbed  grace,  as  dreamily 
He  gazed  upon  the  sky  begemmed  with  stars, 
And  pondered  mysteries.    Ah,  few  the  bars 
To  stop  that  lofty  spirit  in  its  flight 
Compared  with  those  that  lock  our  souls  in  night. 
For  thee  he  thought! 
For  thee  he  wrought, 
The  Tyrian,  who  of  old 
His  rich  web  wove  of  purple  dye  and  gold; 
Whose  little  bark,  outstanding  many  a  storm, 
To  ruder  lands  the  spirit  and  the  form 
Of  Eastern  culture  bore.    Ah!  what  we  owe 
To  him  today,  let  sage  and  poet  show. 
For  thee  he  wrought! 
For  thee  he  fought! 
The  Saxon,  who  upheld 

The  freedom  of  our  race;  whose  broad-ax  felled 
Imperial  legions  in  the  forest  dim 
Where  loud  his  war-cry  rang  —  a  noble  hymn 
For  manhood's  victory  over  regal  pride, 
On  the  sad  day  when  mighty  Varus  died. 
For  thee  he  fought! 
For  thee  He  taught! 
The  Nazarene  who  bore 
The  burden  of  the  world,  who  by  the  shore 
Of  Galilee  His  words  of  wisdom  spake 
Whose  life  a  pattern  for  our  life  we'd  take, 
Whose  words,  re-echoing  to  remotest  time, 
Shall  lead  us  on  toward  a  height  sublime. 
For  thee  He  taught! 

Man  —  man!  thou  heir  of  all  the  ages,  thou, 
Man  of  today!  uplift  thy  drooping  brow! 
Think,  work,  fight,  teach  —  thine  heritage  pass  on 
Tenfold  increased.    He'll  reap  who  has  foregone 
Life's  little,  limited  delights,  —  in  measure 
As  selfless  he  has  sown  his  earthly  treasure. 

[IS] 


THE  FADING   VISION 

rriHE  vision  fades  —  dome,  pinnacle  and  tower, 
JL    All  the  white  beauty  of  the  lake-side  dream, 

The  artist's  ideal,  the  poet's  theme 
Vanish  away.    Yet  for  no  fleeting  hour 

Was  this  proud  fabric  raised.    The  crumbling  wall 
Entombs  not  memory's  treasure,  and  we  hold 
This  truth  dear  as  the  miser  his  loved  gold, 

Dome,  pinnacle  and  tower  cannot  fall. 

No  marvel  this,  that  memory  holds  fast 
Such  beauty,  passing  beauty  seen  before, 
The  grace  and  charm  of  every  clime  and  shore, 

Strength  of  today,  the  glories  of  the  past, 

All  met  in  one  great  whole  —  for  not  alone 

Man's  hand  the  wonder  wrought,  but  soaring  high 
His  spirit,  like  the  bird  that  cleaves  the  sky, 

Knew  naught  of  obstacle  from  zone  to  zone. 

Deathless  his  work.    Age  shall  repeat  to  age 

The  story  of  the  city  by  the  Lake. 

And  as  the  waves  that  on  the  near  sands  break 
Reach  far-off  shores,  so  on  the  pictured  page 

Throughout  remotest  time,  serene  in  pride, 
Wearing  her  crown  of  glory,  shall  be  seen 
Stately  and  fair,  Chicago,  Western  queen, 

With  all  the  Nations  gathered  at  her  side. 

Gladly  they  met,  each  teaching  and  each  taught, 
Light-skinned  or  dark-skinned  from  the  West  or 

East. 
Peoples  unlike,  as  at  a  loving  feast, 

Distant  no  more,  united  in  a  thought. 

Columbia  1  this  thy  lesson,  learn  it  well  — 
The  comity  of  Nations;  this  the  plan 
Of  God  from  time's  first  dawn,  that  man  with 
man, 

Bound  in  one  brotherhood  in  peace  should  dwell. 

[14] 


Great  Voyager,  whose  caravels  outsped 
Man's  swiftest  fancy  in  those  earlier  daysl 
If,  looking  far  beyond  the  curving  bays 

Of  this  new  world  thy  glowing  spirit  read 

That  here  there  stretched  a  mighty  continent 
Where  a  sure  haven  for  mankind  should  be, 
Small  didst  thou  count  thy  peril  on  the  sea, 

Well  knowing  what  thy  sufferings  had  meant. 

For  it  was  thine  to  turn  toward  the  West 
The  worn  old-world,  and  westward  as  the  star 
Of  Power  moves,  nor  tyranny  nor  war 

Its  fires  sustains  —  it  shines  for  the  oppressed. 

The  vision  fades  —  dome,  pinnacle  and  tower  — 
Yet  fades  not  like  the  substance  of  a  dream  — 
Nation  to  Nation,  State  to  State  shall  seem 

Drawn  to  each  other  closer  through  its  power, 
1893 


07 


THE  TITANIC 

of  the  misty  North 
A  stealthy  foeman  stole; 
Far  from  the  haunted  Pole 
On  the  wide  sea  went  he  forth, 

And  he  met  a  giant  ship 
As  he  scoured  the  sea  for  toll 
It  cannot  reach  its  goal 

Crushed  in  his  icy  grip. 

"Of  every  four  just  three" 

This  was  his  deadly  dole. 

Unseen  he  called  the  roll 
Ah!  a  cold  grave  is  the  Sea. 

Yet  the  Sea  is  not  the  end, 

And  Life  is  not  the  whole. 

Over  each  heroic  soul 
Shall  Eternity  extend. 

[15] 


IF  LOVE  WERE  ALL 

IF  Love  were  all,  how  dark  the  world! 
What  sorrow  for  the  stricken  heart! 
If  Love  were  all,  with  Love  grown  cold  — 
No  tempest  raging  bleak  and  bold, 
Its  icy  fury  ever  hurled 
As  madly  as  the  storms  that  dart 
Across  the  soul  when  Love  is  dead. 
Poor  soul,  on  bitter  passion  fed, 
Seeing  in  Earth  or  Heaven  —  no  bliss, 
When  Love  has  died  in  Love's  last  kiss. 
If  Love  were  all! 

If  Love  were  all,  how  fair  the  earth! 
What  joy  in  every  heart-throb  here! 
If  Love  were  all,  and  Love  were  kind, 
Love's  message,  blown  on  every  wind, 

Thrilling  the  soul,  would  give  small  worth 
To  cringing  caution,  or  the  jeer 

Of  those  who  murmur  "Love  must  die" 
When  Love's  alight  from  eye  to  eye, 
Life  is  a  happy  holiday. 
*'  Where's  Whiter?  "    Ah,  'twere  ever  May, 

If  Love  were  all! 


THE  ROVER 

rT1HAT  it  be  love,  I  dare  not  say, 

JL      I  only  know  when  he's  away, 

Dark  as  the  night,  so  dark  the  day. 

But  still  he'll  rove,  and  still  I'll  try 
Some  light  to  see  in  yon  grim  sky. 

For  I  will  prove  if  power  there  be 
To  lead  him  through  the  night  to  me 
In  that  soul-star,  —  fair  Constancy. 


AH!  LITTLE  LAKE 

AH!  little  lake,  though  fair  thou  art, 
A  sapphire  flashing  to  the  sky, 
Thy  charm  is  only  for  the  eye, 
Thy  beauty  cannot  hold  my  heart. 

Green  hill-sides  bending  to  thy  shore 
Gleam  clear  in  the  autumnal  light, 
While  far  above,  Monadnock's  height 

Keeps  rugged  guard  thy  waters  o'er. 

And  yet  these  very  beauties  cloy; 

As  in  a  prison  I  am  bound, 

Though  fair  the  walls  that  gird  me  round, 
My  housemate  is  no  longer  joy. 

Thy  loveliness  breeds  discontent, 
For  far  my  foolish  heart  would  be, 
It  longs  for  the  unquiet  sea, 

And  with  desire  is  sorely  rent. 

Hateful  the  walls  that  me  debar 

From  happier  things  that  haunt  me  so, 
Even  my  weary  thoughts  are  slow 

To  reach  the  great,  great  world  afar. 

I  half  believe  there  is  no  world 
Those  cruel  hill-tops  there  beyond. 
Oh  —  for  the  wizard  Merlin's  wand ! 

That  all  these  mountain  curves  uncurled. 

I  might  behold  the  shore  I  love, 
Might  hear  the  roaring  of  the  tide, 
Might  see  the  ocean,  reaching  wide 

And  boundless  as  the  sky  above. 

One  hour  beside  that  sea-kissed  beach 
Quick  throbbing  to  its  love's  caress, 
Would  yield  to  me  more  happiness 

Than  a  whole  life-time  here  could  teach. 

[17] 


SEVERUS  SPEAKS 

FOR  nearly  eighteen  years  upon  my  head 
The  crown  of  Empire  heavily  has  set. 
The  burden  on  my  shoulders  I  have  borne 
Of  an  estate  encumbered  far  and  wide 
With  debts  I  had  to  pay.    Ah!  everywhere 
Murmurs,  revolts,  or  wars  assailed  my  throne. 
Now  quiet  comes  —  even  in  Britain  here, 
The  most  disturbing  Province  of  them  all. 
Yet  I  must  go,  the  profits  I  must  leave 
To  others  to  enjoy  —  to  hold  with  ease 
What  I  with  bitter  travail  have  obtained. 
Peace  there  must  be,  and  mutual  amity, 
The  one  support  to  hold  the  Empire  firm, 
To  keep  the  Glory  of  the  Empire  bright. 
Discord  would  be  the  ruin  of  the  pile, 
That  my  poor  hands  have  built  so  painfully. 
Only  when  Peace  prevails  may  we  behold 
How  small  things  grow  to  greatness. 

—  Now  I  die 

And  all  the  issue  of  the  coming  days 
I  leave  to  my  successor,  and  my  son, 
Though  he  has  been  a  cruel  son  to  me. 
Bassanius  I  name  your  Emperor, 
The  new-made  Antoninus,  who  long  tried 
To  get  that  title  by  the  sword, 
Who  sought  my  death,  the  dangers  knowing  not 
That  always  must  surround  a  diadem, 
Forgetting  that  the  places  of  the  great 
Are  guarded  well  by  Envy  and  by  Fear. 
Blind  is  ambition,  for  it  cannot  see 
That  though  a  sovereign's  power  large  may  seem 
To  others,  by  himself  the  things  possessed 
Are  counted  small  enough,  aye  small  they  are. 
For  titles  cannot  make  a  happy  man. 
While  his  thin  thread  of  life  must  waver  so, 
His  might  is  laid  upon  a  weak  support. 
So  men  may  point  to  me,  and  say  '  Behold  — 
A  man  who  once  was  all  things  in  this  world, 
[18] 


Yet  now  is  nothing.    For  like  meaner  men 

He  paid  his  debt  to  nature.    His  exploits 

He  left  behind.'    Aye,  friends  I  leave  my  deeds 

For  you  to  register.    Reproach  or  praise 

The  shadowing  pencil  of  oblivion 

At  last  will  blot.    And  yet  that  all  the  care 

That  I  have  tak«n  for  the  general  good 

May  bring  forth  happy  fruits  when  I  am  dust, 

This  would  I  make  my  one,  my  last  request, 

—  Assist  my  sons  with  counsel  and  with  aid, 

That  they  may  rule  according  to  the  law, 

And  you  obey  according  to  the  right. 

So,  through  you  both  —  my  legions  and  my  sons  — 

The  Empire  shall  be  held  in  high  respect." 

And  then  the  dying  Emperor  feebly  turned 
Toward  the  urn  wherein  so  soon  must  lie 
His  ashes  —  and  he  cried  "So  shalt  thou  hold 
What  the  whole  world  one  time  could  not  contain." 
Thus  died  Severus. 


TOWN  AND  COUNTRY 

ABOUT  the  country  they  may  talk  who  will, 
Who  praise  it  ever  to  the  town's  despite. 
Let  him  extol  the  charms  of  wood  and  hill 
Who  finds  them  peerless.  None  disputes  his  right. 

For  me  the  town!    Each  well-worn  footway  old 
To  me  is  dearer  than  your  grass-grown  lane. 

Not  all  who  struggle  here  contend  for  gold; 
Green-growing  things  quit  not  the  soul  of  pain. 

"God  made  the  country."  Ay,  and  God  made  man. 

Working  through  man  His  power  He  displays, 
And  in  the  city's  mazes  His  great  plan 

Is  writ  as  clear  as  in  calm  country  ways. 

[19] 


STRENGTH  RENEWED 

ANT/EUS,  as  the  ancient  poets  sing, 
Though  in  his  contest  with  the  God  of  Power 
Doomed  to  be  conquered,  stayed  the  fatal  hour, 
And  the  onlookers  set  to  wondering. 
For  overborne,  to  Earth  he'd  closely  cling, 
Until  he  rose  again,  a  mighty  tower. 
Thus  could  the  Earth  with  strength  her  lover 

dower, 

And  very  near  to  victory  could  bring. 
So  when  I  feel  thy  tender  hand  in  mine, 

I,  too,  dear  love,  against  the  world  could  stand, 

Courage  divine  comes  with  thy  lightest  touch. 
Afar  from  thee  Antaeus-like  I  pine, 

But  strength  returns  now  as  I  clasp  thy  hand. 
Ah!  that  so  slight  a  thing  should  mean  so 
much. 


AT  MIAMI 

HERE,  where  the  proud  hibiscus  blooms  in  flame, 
Where  swaying  palms  nod  lightly  to  the  sea, 
Where  each  azalea  towers  —  a  stately  tree  — 
And  orange  blossoms  charm,  today  I  came 
Upon  a  little  flower  unknown  to  fame, 
Half  hid  in  the  scant  sward,  white  as  this  shell 
From  yonder  beach,  and  I  can  hardly  tell 
What  drew  me  to  it,  murmuring  its  name. 

"Bred  in  cool  meadows,  vagrant  from  the  North, 
Fair  Dewberry,  what  art  thou  doing  here? 
Or  chance,  or  purpose  started  thee  to  roam? 

And  yet  whatever  power  sent  thee  forth, 
Still  it  is  thine  to  call  the  sudden  tear, 
To   stir  the  trembling    heart  with  thoughts  of 
home." 

[20] 


WHICH 

WHO  then  is  rich,  who  poor?  I'll  tell  you  now 
Of  one,  a  meagre  life  who  had  to  live, 
Wear  dingy  garb,  and  scarcely  could  allow 

Himself  what  men  call  comfort;  yet  to  give 
Was  his  delight,  —  to  give  full-heartedly. 

Though  Fate  had  hampered  him,  he  always  knew 
Some  one  still  poorer.     In  humility 

He  thus  gave  hope  to  him  who  had  small  view 
Of  happier  things;  —  solace  to  him  who  wept;  — 

And  to  the  beaten  courage  to  endure. 
He  shared  his  little  with  the  starved,  and  kept 
His  best  for  those  who  needed  most.    Though 
poor, 

By  giving  he  grew  richer  day  by  day 
In  all  that  brightens  life's  uncertain  way. 

There  was  another  who  had  never  known 

A  wish  unsatisfied.     For  everything 
That  luxury  could  offer  was  his  own. 

Thus  all  that  learning,  all  that  wealth  could  bring 
Adorned  his  life.    The  many  him  would  praise,  — 

For  this  world  loves  the  prosperous,  —  and  still 
Close  to  himself  he  hugged  his  all.    To  raise 

A  helping  hand  he  never  had  the  will. 
He  never  heard  the  cries  of  men  in  need. 

Of  all  he  had  he  would  not  give  a  part. 
For  "I"  and  "mine"  was  ever  his  one  creed. 

No  balm  had  he  for  any  aching  heart. 

Mean  was  his  life  (as  was  the  other's  great) 
Despite  the  splendor  of  his  high  estate. 
And  now  in  yonder  world  I  wonder  which  — 
For  both  are  dead  —  is  counted  poor  —  or  rich. 


[21] 


THE  BLESSED  DEAD 

r  I  "'HEY  loved  life,  even  as  we,  who  went  away 
-L      From  their  dear  dwelling-place   to   one  un 
known 

To  us  who  linger  here.    They  could  not  stay, 
Nor  we  go  with  them,  so  they  went  alone. 

Although  their  beating  hearts  with  ours  kept  time, 
Although  their  clinging  hands  we  fondly  held, 

We  could  not  walk  the  path  they  had  to  climb, 
Hardly  we  heard  the  death-call  when  it  knelled. 

Trustful,  or  fearful  of  the  way  ahead, 

They  had  to  journey  from  this  throbbing  life, 

And  we  —  we  know  they  are  the  blessed  dead, 
For  they  have  gone  away  from  pain  and  strife. 

We  cannot  see  the  land  where  they  have  gone. 

Our  eyes  are  dim,  and  they  are  hid  in  light, 
But  we  are  following  them  toward  the  dawn, 

Who  knows  when  it  will  break  upon  our  sight! 


OAK-LEAVES 

/"CRINKLED  oak-leaves,  twinkling  in  the  sun, 
\^4    Splashed  by  midday  showers,  dripping  cold  — 
Serrate  oak-leaves,  silvered  by  the  sun 
That  has  brushed  yon  dull  brown  grass  with  gold. 

Green  and  crinkled  oak  leaves,  tremble  now  — 
Strong  you  would  be,  strong  would  be  and  bold, 

Ah!  green  oak-leaves,  you  are  trembling  now  — 
By  the  saucy  wind  deceived  —  cajoled! 

Trembling  oak  leaves  —  you  are  soon  to  fall, 
Soon  to  hide  the  earth  with  yellowing  mould 

Twinkling,  crinkling  oak-leaves,  soon  you'll  fall 
For  the  autumn  sun  is  shining  cold. 

[22] 


SELF-SATISFIED 

WELL  satisfied  with  all  his  own,  he  stands 
Holding  a  trembling  balance  in  his  hands; 
On  one  scale — wealth  and  ease,  men's  Braises,  too, — • 
Whatever  charms  the  soul,  and  keeps  it  true. 
But  on  the  other  scale  —  lo  —  the  foul  street 
Where  pallid  children  play,  where  poor  folk  greet, 
And  crowded  houses  dirty,  dimly  lit, 
On  whose  dull  walls  all  misery  is  writ, 
Houses  wherein  the  herded  cannot  fight 
The  ambushed  evil  lurking  day  and  night. 
Has  he  —  contented  one  —  who  counts  his  gain, 
Balanced  the  cost  —  the  wretchedness  and  pain 
Of  those  who  help  him  hoard  his  heap  of  gold? 
Ah,  human  life  may  be  too  dearly  sold! 
For  see,  the  one  scale  weighs  the  other  down. 
His  gold,  his  ease,  his  honors  —  by  Heaven's  frown 
Withered  to  nothing,  now,  behold  he  stands  — 
Broken  his  scales  —  reaching  imploring  hands. 


MY  VIGIL 

COMPANIONED  by  the  lonely  hours, 
\J(     My  vigil  with  the  stars  I  keep,  — 
The  happy  stars  that  never  weep,  — 
The  wakeful  stars  that  never  sleep, 
Spirit  of  me  that  frets  and  cowers, 
Ah,  what  am  I,  that  I  should  be 
And  breathe  in  this  Infinity? 

Unburdened  of  the  weight  of  self, 

Toward  the  highest  heights  I  am  borne, 
Below  lies  Earth,  begrimed  and  worn, 
Far,  far  from  me  her  praise,  her  scorn, 

Her  joys,  her  woes,  her  loss  her  pelf, 
One  with  the  happy  stars  am  1 1 
Our  limits  the  unbounded  skyl 


[23] 


TO  MRS.  JULIA  WARD  HOWE 

DEAR  Lady  of  Tranquillity,  Ah  I  lightly  have 
the  years 
Their  music  on  thy  heart-strings  played,  and  all  the 

smiles  and  tears 
That  mark  the  joy  of  living,  that  sound  the  depths 

of  pain 

For   thee  make  one    great    harmony  —  a    happy 
heart's  refrain. 

(On  her  eighty-sixth  birthday.) 


THE  SOARER 

r  I  ^HERE  soars  a  warbler  toward  high  Heaven, 
_L      His  course  seems  sure  and  straight;  — 
So  speeds  an  arrow  from  the  bow-string, 
Yet  who  can  read  his  fate! 

For  while  he  carols  like  a  seraph 

Bound  for  a  radiant  star 
Mayhap  the  fowler's  eye,  relentless, 

Has  doomed  him  from  afar. 

A  longer  life  the  crawling  snail  hath 
Than  thou  —  O  wanderer  bright  — 

Ah,  let  the  sluggard  crawl  in  safety, 
Thine  is  the  realm  of  light! 

Like  thee  a  soaring  soul's  in  peril, 

Yet  its  one  hour  is  worth 
A  whole  Eternity  of  grovelling 

Closer  to  grimy  earth. 


[24] 


A  FANCY 

THE  world  of  dreams  is  all  my  own, 
Wherein  I  wander  —  free,  alone;  — 
And  each  weird,  fervid  fantasy 
Is  dearer  than  earth's  joys  to  me. 
The  waking  world  I  share  with  you; 
And  yours,  as  mine,  is  the  ocean's  blue. 

For  us  both  spring's  early  flowers  are  fair, 
Or  the  cold  stars  gleam  through  the  frosty  air. 

But  in  the  world  of  dreams  I  rove 
Over  sunny  fields,  or  in  shaded  grove,  — 
Such  beauty  your  eyes  never  saw  — 
And  all  is  mine  without  let  or  law. 
Ah!  the  hopes  and  fears  that  come  and  go 
With  my  flying  fancy,  none  may  know; 
Though  unsubstantial,  it  seems 
My  real  world  —  this  world  of  dreams. 


THE  SHRIEKING  WOMAN  AT  MARBLEHEAD 


T  i^WAS  a  Spanish  gaUeon  sailed  the  seas, 

JL       Two  centuries  since  have  rolled  — 
Laden  with  silver  and  gems  to  please 
Gay  dames  and  gallants  bold. 

But  villainous  pirates  seized  the  ship 

As  homeward  she  was  bound; 
Ah,  she  has  made  her  last  long  trip 

For  they  ran  her  soon  aground. 

From  Oakum  Bay  into  Marblehead 
They  brought  one  lady  fair,  — 

Her  husband,  alas,  and  his  crew  are  dead, 
And  her  they  will  not  spare. 


[253 


Loud,  loud  she  shrieked  in  the  pirates'  arms, 

"Oh,  save  me  —  Jesu,  save!' 
Cruel  echo  mocked  at  her  wild  alarms, 

As  they  dug  her  a  nameless  grave. 

Yet  once  a  year  when  the  night  has  come 

That  saw  her  dreadful  death, 
You  can  hear  her  above  the  ocean's  boom 

Shriek  out  with  her  dying  breath. 


THE  HUGUENOT  LOVERS 

O  ORROWFUL  pleading  on  her  face  is  written 

O    With  love  commingled,  and  my  heart  throbs 

fast, 

Flooded  with  currents  of  a  deep  emotion 
Stirred  by  the  memory  of  that  awful  past. 
Note  the  sad  gaze  of  him  who  bends  above  her, 
What  say  his  eyes  in  answer  to  her  own? 
What  did  he  think  as  tenderly  he  kissed  her? 
What  was  the  meaning  of  his  whispered  tone? 
Spoke  he  of  honor's  claim  poor  love's  outweighing, 
Or  did  her  circling  arms  so  well  enfold 
That  the  white  kerchief  wearing-badge  of  safety  — 
He  passed  the  lurking  foe  with  spirit  bold. 

Ah,  they  are  vanished  now  —  the  maid  and  lover, 
Their  history  the  wisest  cannot  tell. 
Mayhap  upon  that  night  of  cruel  slaughter, 
Eager  to  meet  the  zealot's  hate  he  fell. 
Mayhap  in  some  fair  corner  of  the  Kingdom, 
Under  the  gentler  rule  of  brave  Navarre, 
They  showed  the  kerchief  to  their  children's  children, 
And  told  the  story  of  the  unholy  war. 


[26] 


TO  JOHN  TOWNSEND  TROWBRIDGE 

GAY  Summer  sees  the  flowering 
Of  buds  that  were  the  gift  of  Spring; 
And  Winter  counts  the  ripened  sheaves 
That  Autumn  harvested.    Who  grieves 
When  he  at  length  has  won  the  race, 
Or  backward  then  his  way  would  trace? 

Oh,  honored  Poet,  Wit,  and  Sage, 

This  birthday  marks  an  open  page, 

And  here  before  its  record's  writ, 

These  words  we  would  inscribe  on  it. 

"Thou,  upon  whom  thy  years  fourscore 

So  lightly  sit,  thou  hast  a  store ; 

Of  memories  such  as  they  alone 

May  have  whose  hearts  all  truth  have  known. 

Now  may  this  year  bring  thee  no  less 

Than  all  the  past  of  happiness!" 

(On  his  eightieth  birthday.) 


WEED  OR  FLOWER 

'r  I  ^IS  but  a  common  thing,"  one  coldly  said, 
JL  "Nay,  call  it  not  a  flower  —  this  little  weed, 
If  plucking  it,  I  kill  it,  root  and  seed  — 
Better  the  world  were  if  it  lay  there  dead." 

"  Ah  —  rather  let  it  live!"  a  second  cried, 
"Weed  it  may  be,  and  yet  it  has  its  use, 
Here  in  its  healing  essence  its  excuse 

For  blooming  lies,  and  here  its  only  pride." 

"Destroy  it  not!"  another  pled,  "Behold 
This  tapering  leaf  —  this  soft  and  tender  green, 
Upon  my  canvas  it  shall  bloom  serene  — 

This  tiny  chalice-fleck  of  living  gold." 

Then  one  bent  over  it,  "Ah,  flowret  bright! 
For  only  flowers  in  this  garden  grow,  — 
His  earth,  His  sunshine  made  thee,  o'er  thee  blow 

His  winds,  frail  thing !  In  thee  He  shows  His  might." 

[273 


THOMAS  WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON  (IN  MEMORY) 

SAGE  of  the  silver  pen! 
Wherever  thy  thought  was  heard, 
Thou  wert  a  leader  of  men. 

Poet  of  honored  word! 
Knight  of  the  eagle  glance, 

Piercing  the  depths  of  wrong, 
"Justice"  thy  cry,  and  thy  lance 
True  in  its  aim,  and  strong. 

Man  of  the  ruddy  heart 

Beating  warm  for  our  kind! 
Thine  was  the  hero's  part; 

Eyes  wert  thou  to  the  blind: 
Thou  a  staff  to  the  weak, 

Here  we  our  tribute  lay  — 
Homage  thou  didst  not  seek  — 

Twined  with  a  wreath  of  bay, 
A  garland  woven  of  love, 

Woven  of  love  and  tears, 
Pure  as  the  note  of  a  dove, 

Voicing  thy  peaceful  years. 

(Read  at  the  Memorial  Meeting  Nov.  20,  1911.) 


LIGHTER  VERSE 


FRIGHTENED 

TODAY  I  had  the  awfulest  time, 
Dear  mother,  in  the  wood. 
That  hill  out  there  we  were  to  climb, 

And  we'd  been  very  good. 
But  nurse  was  walking  up  the  hill, 

When  little  Anne  and  I, 
We  had  to  stop  and  stand  quite  still, 
And  Anne  began  to  cry. 

For  something  moved  behind  the  trees, 

We  felt  so  all  alone  — 
Said  I  to  Anne,  "Stop  crying,  please, 

I'll  hit  it  with  a  stone." 
Cried  Anne,  "Oh,  listen,  hear  it  growl." 

Said  I,  "I'm  not  afraid 
Of  bears  or  lions."     "Now  don't  scowl. 

You  look  so  cross,"  she  said. 

So  then  I  had  to  smile  and  smile,  for  Anne  was  cry 
ing  all  the  while. 

And  if  we  didn't  hear  a  bear,  I'm  sure,  dear  mother, 
one  was  there. 

Boys  always  must  take  care  of  girls, 

You  see  you've  told  me  so. 
That's  why  I  tried  to  pat  Anne's  curls, 

And  walked  with  her  real  slow. 
But  when  we  heard  nurse  calling  out, 

"Come,  children,  come  along!" 
"Come,  Nurse,"  you  should  have  heard  me  shout — 

Anne  says  my  voice  is  strong. 
"Run,  Anne,"  I  cried,  "I'm  almost  five,  and  I'll  kill 

any  bear  alive." 

And  if  we  didn't  see  a  bear,  I  truly  think  that  one 
was  there. 

How  glad  I  was  when  Nurse  turn'd  round, 

For  everything  seemed  queer. 
The  trees  looked  strange,  and  then  that  sound 

We  didn't  like  to  hear. 

C31] 


Nurse  laughed  when  we  had  told  her  all 

About  the  bear  we  saw. 
"  I  came  as  quick's  I  heard  you  call, 

And  it's  against  the  law 
For  bears  to  live  where  people  stay.    They  are  five 

hundred  miles  away." 

But  if  we  didn't  meet  a  bear,  I'm  sure  that  almost 
one  was  there. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  LETTER 

I'M  always  glad  when  Christmas  comes,  and  yet 
I'd  like  it  better; 

If  mother  wouldn't  bother  me  to  write  a  Christmas 
letter 

To  uncle  John  and  Cousin  Kate  and  dear  old  Grand- 
aunt  Gray, 

And  all  whose  presents  come  to  me  from  places  far 
away. 

Of  course  I  love  my  presents,  and  if  givers  should 
forget  her, 

No  little  girl,  my  mother  says,  need  write  a  Christ 
mas  letter. 

For  oh!  my  ink  makes  awful  blots,  though  I  try 
to  do  real  well, 

And  when  you  write  them  out  of  school,  all  words 
are  hard  to  spell. 

I  mean  to  mind  my  mother,  she's  so  kind  I  would 
not  fret  her, 

But  when  she  says,  "Stop  playing,  dear.  Come, 
write  this  Christmas  letter," 

That's  just  the  thing  I  hate  to  hear,  and  if  I  dared, 
I  wouldn't 

Rememeber  how  to  hold  a  pen,  I'd  make  believe  I 
couldn't. 


[32] 


A   VICTIM 

MY  Auntie  has  a  camera,  and  when  I'm  out  at 
play 

And  see  her  coming  with  it,  I  try  to  hide  away. 
For  oh,  it  is  so  bothersome  to  hear  her,  with  a  laugh, 
Call,  "Stand  just  were  you  are,  dear;    I'll  take  a 
photograph." 

Sometimes,  an  angry  lion,  I  have  just  begun  to  roar, 
And  all  the  children  run  from  me  to  sneak  behind 

the  door, 
When  Auntie  to  our  forest  comes  —  why  does  she 

stop  our  fun? 
I'd  like  to  shoot  that  camera  there  with  my  wooden 

gun. 

Perhaps,  a  fire  engine,  I  am  rushing  to  a  fire, 
While  people  loudly  call  for  help  as  flames  rise  higher 

and  higher. 
I  hurry  toward  the  hydrant  here,  for  oh!  the  flames 

are  hot! 
When  Auntie  with  her  camera  cries,  "What  a  fine 

snapshot!" 

But  then  it  doesn't  seem  to  snap,  so  I  must  be  polite, 
And  when  she  says,  "Oh  please,  stand  still,  the  sun  is 

not  just  right," 
I  have  to  pull  up  where  I  am,  and  see  that  house 

burn  down, 
For  Auntie  doesn't  understand,  even  when  I  twist 

and  frown. 

She  only  says,  "Don't  squirm,  my  pet!  Oh,  what  a 

cunning  pose! 
Your  scowl  is  better  than  a  smile,"  —  so  that's  the 

way  it  goes  — 

A  p'liceman  or  an  admiral,  no  matter  what  I  am, 
I  have  to  face  that  camera  as  quiet  as  a  lamb. 


[33] 


JACK  FROST 

OH!  it  is  little  Margery  who  has  a  garden-bed, 
Wherein  grow  purple  pansies  and  geraniums 

white  and  red, 

With  feverfew  and  dahlias,  and  delicate  pink  phlox, 
And    grandmother's    fair  favorites,    old-fashioned 
hollyhocks. 

One  night  we  feared  Jack  Frost  might  come  to  blight 

the  tender  flowers  — 
We  almost  felt  his  cruel  breath  in  the  early  evening 

hours; 
So  Margery  took  coverings  and  spread  them,  thick 

and  warm, 
To  shield  the  flowers,  as  blankets  wrap  a  sleeping 

baby's  form. 

Then  in  the  morning,  when  we  looked  across  the 

dewy  grass, 
And  saw  the  traces  Jack  Frost  leaves  where  he  is 

wont  to  pass  — 
For  each  spreading  tree  and  slender  bush  had  felt 

his  chill  caress, 
And  some  had  drooped,  and  some  had  blushed  in 

crimson  loveliness  — 

We  hastened  to  the  garden-bed,  and  there,  in  bright 

array, 
The  little  flowers  looked  blithely  up  to  greet  the 

smiling  day. 
Safe  hid  from  Jack  Frost's  piercing  breath,  he  never 

saw  them  there, 
And  the  flowers  still  bloom  for  Margery,  to  thank 

her  for  her  care. 


[34] 


A  CURIOSITY 

I  KNEW  a  little  boy,  not  very  long  ago, 
Who  was  as  bright  and  happy  as  any  boy  you 

know. 

He  had  an  only  fault,  and  you  will  all  agree 
That  from  a  fault  like  this  a  boy  himself  might  free. 

"I  wonder  who  is  there,  oh,  see!  now,  why  is  this?" 
And  "Oh,  where  are  they  going?"  and  "Tell  me 

what  it  is?" 
Ah!  "which"  and  "why"  and  "who,"  and  "what" 

and  "where"  and  "when," 
We  often  wished  that  never  need  we  hear  those 

words  again. 

He  seldom  stopped  to  think;  he  almost  always  knew 
The  answer  to  the  questions  that  around  the  world 

he  threw. 

To  children  seeking  knowledge  a  quick  reply  we  give, 
But  answering  what  he  asked  was  pouring  water 

through  a  sieve. 

Yet  you'll  admit  his  fate  was  as  sad  as  it  was  strange. 
Our  eyes  we  hardly  trusted,  who  slowly  saw  him 

change. 
More  curious  grew  his  head,  stemlike  his  limbs,  and 

hark! 
He  was  at  last  a  mere  interrogation-mark! 


THE  FIRST  LIE 

I'M  sure  I  did  not  break  this  cup; 
It  just  fell  down,  —  I  know  it  did  — 
For  I  was  only  climbing  up, 

Why  do  they  keep  the  cake-box  hid?  — 
I  wanted  such  a  little  bit! 

And  then  I  heard  that  creaking  door, 
I  can't  tell  what  it  was  I  hit, 
Nor  how  that  cup  got  on  the  floor. 

[35] 


The  shelf  it  stood  on  was  too  high, 

That  cup  my  mother  loved  the  most! 
Oh  dear!  I  never  told  a  lie, 

And  mother  whispered,  "Do  not  boast," 
The  day  I  said  I  never  could. 

(But  there's  that  broken  cup!)  —  and  then 
I  promised  that  I  never  would  — 

So  —  I'll  not  tell  a  lie  —  again. 


THE  PARASOL 

YOU  are  the  loveliest  parasol 
I  ever  saw,  —  and  all  my  own,  — 
What  frilly  frills!    I  feel  as  tall 
As  mother  now.    Here!  take  my  doll. 

Dolls  are  for  children  —  ladies  grown 
Have  parasols,  and  fans,  and  rings, 
And  all  those  pretty,  shiny  things. 

Nurse  calls  you  "  sunshade,"  but  I  think 
That  is  too  plain  a  word,  for  see  I 

You  are  so  satiny  and  pink 

And  there  is  such  a  curly  kink 
Here  in  your  handle,  there  could  be 

No  name  too  fine,  I  love  you  so, 
I'll  take  you  everywhere  I  go. 

Next  Sunday  when  to  church  I  walk, 
Above  my  head  I'll  hold  you  high. 
Oh!  how  the  other  girls  will  talk, 
And  maybe  some  of  them  will  mock, 

"How  proud  she  feels,"  as  I  pass  by  — 
I'd  hold  you  up,  straight  down  the  aisle, 
If  only  people  wouldn't  smile. 


[36] 


A  MODERN  GRANDMOTHER 

I  WANT  to  see  a  grandmother  like  those  there 
used  to  be, 

In  a  cosy  little  farm-house,  where  I  could  go  to  tea; 
A  grandmother  with  spectacles  and  a  funny,  frilly 

cap, 
Who  would  make  me  sugar  cookies,  and  take  me  on 

her  lap, 
And  tell  me  lots  of  stories  of  the  days  when  she  was 

small, 
When  everyhing  was  perfect  —  not  like  today  at  all. 

My  grandmother  is  "grandma,"  and  she  lives  in  a 

hotel, 
And  when  they  ask  "What  is  his  age?"  she  smiles 

and  will  not  tell. 
Says  she  doesn't  care  to  realize  that  she  is  growing 

old; 
Then  whispers  —  "  But  you're  far  too  big  a  boy  for 

me  to  hold." 
Her  dresses  shine  and  rustle,  and  her  hair  is  wavy 

brown, 
And  she  has  an  automobile,  that  she  steers,  herself, 

down  town. 

My  grandmother  is   pretty.     "Do  I   love  her?" 

Rather  — yes; 

Our  Norah  calls  her  stylish,  and  on  the  whole  I  guess 
She's  better  than  the  other  kind,  for  once,  when  I 

was  ill, 
She  helped  my  mother  nurse  me,  and  read  to  me 

until 
I  fell  asleep;  and  stayed  with  me,  and  wasn't  tired, 

and  then 
She  played  nine  holes  of  golf  with  me  when  I  got  out 

again. 
Yet,  because  I've  never  seen  one,  just  once  I  want 

to  see 
A  real  old-fashioned  grandmother,  like  those  there 

used  to  be. 

[37] 


SIGNS  FOR  THE  SERIOUS 

HE  has  a  taste  that's  superfine  who  flouts  at 
every  subway  sign, 

He  reckons  not  that  some  there  be,  who  cannot  tell, 
unless  they  see 

Spelled  plain  before  them  on  the  wall,  what  things 
their  own  they  ought  to  call 

For  instance,  when  I  come  to  town,  whom  you  may 
dub  a  country  clown  — 

How  should  I  know  what  things  to  buy,  if  not  a 
subway  sign  were  nigh 

To  show  —  the  pills  I  ought  to  take  my  all-con 
suming  thirst  to  slake;  — 

The  hair  restorer  that  will  soothe  my  infant  son 
with  his  first  tooth;  — 

The  ruddy  catsup  that  is  sure  all  family  jars  and  ills 
to  cure;  — 

The  dollar  watch  that  daintily  we'll  serve,  wound 
up,  for  early  tea;  — 

The  window-screens  that  will  not  hide  our  failings 
from  the  country-side;  — 

What  breakfast-food  is  our  true  friend,  the  dime 
cigars  that  I  should  send 

My  wife  to  cure  her  racking  cough.  The  hooks  and 
eyes  that  won't  come  off 

Ah  1  hats,  and  soaps,  and  castor-oil,  and  cocoa  that 
we  need  not  boil;  - 

And  well-made  suits  and  patent  soup,  and  phono 
graphs.  —  But  what  a  dupe 

Of  every  city  tradesman  I,  if  all  these  vendibles  I'd 
try 

To  purchase  by  my  native  wit!  Yet  what  the  sub 
way  "best"  has  writ 

In  flaming  words,  with  weird  device  —  that  make 
I  mine,  —  and  pay  the  price. 


[38] 


TRIMMING 

WHEN  your  father,  long  ago,  tried  to  train  you 
—  and  you  know 
He  thought  mornings  meant  for  school,  and  not 

for  swimming  — 
How  your  heart  beat  loud  in  dread  as  relentlessly 

he  said, 

"You'll  remember  —  when  you've  had   another 
trimming." 

When  your  daughter  buys  a  hat,  and  you're  won 
dering  thereat, 

As  before  the  glass  she  stands,  its  beauty  hymn 
ing; 
Ah!  the  mischief  in  her  eyes,  as  she  pleads,  "Show 

no  surprise 
At  the  cost.    One  has  to  pay  for  pretty  trimming." 

When  the  butcher  brings  your  bill,  and  you  stare  at 

it  until 

Your  tongue  with  fervid  words  is  fairly  brimming, 
Then  you  hear  him  meekly  say,  as  your  anger  you 

display, 

"  It  seems  high,  because  there's  so  much  waste  in 
trimming." 

So  when  politicians  try  your  votes  to  beg  or  buy 
With  their  sophistry  —  your  common  sense  that's 

dimming  — 
Just  remember  then  the  cost  (and  the  waste,  should 

all  be  lost), 

Of  the  smooth-tongued,  wordy  trimmer's  pretty 
trimming. 


[39] 


THE  ANNEX 

STONE  walls  do  not   a   prison  make,  nor  iron 
bars  a  cage" 
High  halls  do  not  a  College  make,  nor  book-lined 

shelves  a  sage. 
So  might  I  follow  haltingly  these  olden  words  to 

show 
That  even  in  this  newer  home  the  Annex  may  not 

know 
A  greater  zeal  for  learning  than  the  old  house  could 

bestow. 

But  comparisons  are  odious,  so  I'll  merely  try  to  say 
That  cherished  deep  within  the  hearts  of  many  here 

today 
Is  the  memory  of  that  early  home  in  the  classic 

Appian  Way. 
There  first  did  the  young  Annex  (whose  real  Christian 

name 

Contains  as  many  syllables  as  it  has  liens  on  fame) 
Win  laurels  even  brighter  than  its  friends  had  hoped 

to  claim. 
And  there,  too,  in    their    search,  for    intellectual 

recreation 
Its  students  formed  the  short-lived  Appian  Way 

Association 

Of  which  this  later  Club  is  but  an  "  Idler"  imitation. 
Just  where  the  interloper  dwelt  was  long  a  mystery. 
In  the  past  to  Harvard  students  and  to  townsmen 

equally, 
Till  they  cried,  "There  is  no  Annex  —  believe  we 

only  what  we  see!" 
Now  the  Annex  and  its  mission  every  year  are  better 

known, 
From  the  smallest  of  beginnings  strong  and  powerful 

it  has  grown: 
Only  Harvard  Freshmen  speak  of  it  in  supercilious 

tone, 
Although  custom  would  forbid  us  as  we  are  passing 

near, 

[40] 


To  salute  the  ancient  building  with  a  rousing  Annex 
cheer, 

We  need  no  sign  like  this  to  prove  that  still  we  hold 
it  dear. 

Now  the  students  who  have  profited  by  their  fore 
seeing  care 

Fondly  thank  the  Annex  founders  who  knew  not 
the  word  "despair." 

Its  best  home  was  the  hearts  of  those  who  planned 

the  structure  fair. 
(Read  at  a  College  celebration.) 


A  LIBERTY  BOND 

\   LIBERTY   BOND!    What   a   queer  contra- 
JL\.        diction! 
Although  truth,  as  you've  heard,  may  be  stranger 

than  fiction. 

For  Liberty  should  from  all  fetters  release  us, 
While   bonds  hold   one  fast,   whether   pauper   or 

Croesus. 

Yet  a  Liberty  Bond  —  I'd  advise  you  to  buy  it  — 
Will  ensure  you  your  freedom  —  you'll  see  when  you 

try  it. 

'Twill  aid  you  to  conquer  foes  cruel,  despotic, 
'Twill  help  save  your  Country,  come,  be  patriotic! 
A  Liberty  Bond  —  I'd  advise  you  to  buy  one  — 
Will  ensure  you  your  freedom  —  rejoice  when  you 

try  one  I 


[41] 


A  HERO 


LIKE  many  another  I  have  crossed 
Oftener  than  once  the  broad  Atlantic, 
And  —  feeling  qualms  when  tempest-tossed, 
Have  shuddered  at  the  waves  gigantic, 
Fearing  that  really  nevermore 
I'd  find  myself  again  ashore. 

Then  when  —  upset  —  and  scarce  awake, 

In  moments  of  perturbed  reflection, 
My  wandering  thoughts  would  slowly  take 
Time  and  again  the  same  direction. 
I'd  think  of  that  adventurous  man, 
Who  crossed  the  sea  —  first  of  my  clan. 

Tis  not  for  me  to  hope  to  find 

Upon  my  family  tree's  broad  branches 
Ancestors  wholly  to  my  mind; 
I  know  that  I  am  taking  chances 
In  digging  them  up  from  the  past 
To  deck  this  hardy  tree  at  last. 

Indeed  I  would  not  waste  my  breath, 

And  even  less  my  ink  and  paper, 
To  prove  from  Queen  Elizabeth 
Is  my  descent  (some  cut  this  caper), 
Nor  in  King  Alfred  root  my  tree  — 
Here's  jocund  genealogy. 

A  Governor  or  two,  of  course, — 

Or  even  a  Colonial  preacher 
I'd  not  despise,  —  nor  yet  perforce 
A  good  Selectman,  stern  of  feature, 
Provided  they  came  early  here. 
Such  ancestors  to  me  are  dear. 


[42] 


Yet  of  them  all  the  man  I  hold 

A  mighty  hero  —  none  seems  greater  — 
Is  he  —  that  honest  man  and  bold  — 
Whether  Psalm-singer,  or  bear-baiter, 
First  of  my  name  to  reach  the  strand, 
Of  this  almost  unpeopled  land. 

He  may  have  been  of  high  estate, 

He  may  have  been  a  simple  yeoman, 
Undaunted  by  an  adverse  fate, 
Brave  was  he  as  the  bravest  Roman. 
At  naught  he  quailed,  his  heart  was  stout, 
When  he  for  the  New  World  set  out. 

Compared  with  mine  —  a  little  skiff 

His  boat  was,  on  the  untracked  ocean, 

Comforts  were  scarce,  and  breezes  stiff  — 

No  luxuries,  —  though  I've  a  notion 

Billows  were  just  as  high  as  now, 

While  Danger  sat  upon  the  prow. 

Just  where  would  be  his  landing-place. 

He  hardly  knew  when  waves  he  tossed  on 
While  my  woes  at  sea  efface 
By  merely  murmuring,  "Home  is  Boston." 
Yet  he  had  left  his  all  behind 
In  the  new  world  his  all  to  find. 

"  R-E-E-D  "  —  "  E-I "— "  E-A," 

Just  how  we  spell  it  need  not  matter. 
The  name  we  honor  here  today 

Each  clan  may  claim  with  equal  clatter 
British,  euphonious,  clear  and  short, 

Rede  me  a  name  of  better  sort! 

Read  at  a  meeting  of  a  Genealogical  Society. 


THE  RIVALS 

SAID  the  Bicycle  to  the  Automobile: 
"How  high  and  mighty  and  gay  you  feel; 
Yet  I  can  remember  the  day  when  I 
Would  let  no  other  one  pass  me  by 
Cart  horse  and  roadster  and  racehorse  too, 
Far  ahead  of  them  all  I  flew. 
Now  my  tires  are  unpumped  and  my  warning  bell 
The  attention  of  nobody  can  compel. 

"Though  you  maim  your  thousands  where  I  hurt  one, 
Though  ten  times  my  farthest  is  your  day's  run, 
Still  I  have  been  teaming  while  lying  here, 
That  a  rival's  coming  for  you  to  fear. 
I  have  heard  them  talk  of  a  wonderful  thing, 
That  can  fly  in  the  air  like  a  bird  on  the  wing, 
That  can  carry  a  man  over  land,  over  sea; 
In  a  twinkling  he  is  where  he  wishes  to  be. 

"So  swiftly  it  speeds,  in  a  week  and  a  day 

One  may  girdle  the  globe,  I  have  heard  them  say, 

While  you  are  contented  from  dawn  to  dark 

With  a  few  score  miles  to  have  made  your  mark." 

The  giant,  throughout  his  quivering  frame, 

Felt  the  truth  that  was  mixed  with  his  rival's  blame. 

"  I'll  never  be  such  a  clod  as  you," 

He  sputtered  as  off  on  the  road  he  flew; 

And  his  end  the  Bicycle  never  knew. 


[44] 


FROM  THE  ODES  OF  HORACE 


TO  M&CENAS.    III-2d 

MAECENAS,  scion  of  Tyrrhenian  rulers, 
A  jar,  as  yet  unpierced,  of  mellow  wine 
Long  waits  thee  here,  with  balm  for  thee  made  ready 
And  blooming  roses  hi  thy  locks  to  twine. 

No  more  delay,  nor  always  look  with  favor 

The  sloping  fields  of  ^Esula  upon; 
Why  gaze  so  long  on  ever  marshy  Tibur 

Near  by  the  mount  of  murderer  Telegon? 

Give  up  thy  luxury  —  it  palls  upon  thee  — 
Thy  tower  that  reaches  yonder  lofty  cloud; 

Cease  to  admire  the  smoke,  the  wealth,  the  uproar, 
And  all  that  well  hath  made  our  Rome  so  proud. 

Sometimes  a  change  is  grateful  to  the  rich  man, 
A  simple  meal  beneath  a  humble  roof 

Has  often  smoothed  from  care  the  furrowed  forehead, 
Though  unadorned  that  home  with  purple  woof. 

Bright  Cepheus  now  his  long-hid  fire  is  showing, 
Now  flames  on  high  the  angry  lion-star, 

Now  Procyon  rages,  and  the  sun  revolving 
Brings  back  the  thirsty  season  from  afar. 

Seeking  a  cooling  stream,  the  weary  shepherd 
His  languid  flock  leads  to  the  shady  wood 

Where  rough  Sylvanus  reigns,  yet  by  the  brookside. 
No  truant  breeze  disturbs  the  solitude. 

Ah,  who  but  thee  is  busy  now  with  statecraft? 

Thou  plannest  for  Rome's  weal,  disquieted, 
Lest  warring  Scythian,  Bactrian,  or  Persian 

Should' st  plunge  the  city  into  awful  dread. 

A  prudent  deity  in  pitchy  darkness 

The  issue  of  futurity  conceals, 
And  smiles  when  man  beyond  the  right  of  mortals, 

His  fear  about  the  time  to  come  reveals. 

(This  version  won,  in  1890,  the  Sargent  Prize,  offered 
annually  to  students  of  Harvard  University  and  Radcliffe 
College.) 

[47] 


Thou  should'st  concern  thee  only  with  the  present, 

All  else  progresses  as  the  river  flows, 
Which  gliding  at  one  time  in  middle  channel 

Toward  the  Tuscan  Sea  unruffled  goes; 

Or  at  another  time,  herds,  trees,  and  houses, 
And  broken  rocks  to  one  destruction  drags, 

When  wild  the  flood  provokes  the  quiet  current 
With  noise  from  neighboring  woods  and  distant 
crags. 

Happy  he  li ves,  and  of  himself  is  master, 

That  man  who  can  at  night  with  truth  declare, 

"  I  have  lived  to-day,  to-morrow  let  the  Father 
Make  as  he  will  my  sky  or  dark  or  fair, 

"  It  is  not  his  to  render  vain  and  worthless 
My  happy  past  —  the  bliss  has  dearer  grown 

That  the  fleet-footed  hour  carried  with  it; 

The  joys  that  once  have  been  are  still  my  own. 

"  Now  upon  me,  again  on  others  smiling, 

Fortune  rejoices  in  her  savage  trade 
Of  shifting  thus  at  will  uncertain  honors, 

As  stubbornly  her  mocking  game  is  played. 

"I  praise  her  when  she  stays,  but  if  she  leave  me, 
Fluttering  her  airy  wings  in  hasty  flight, 

I  yield  her  what  she  gave,  and  wrapped  in  virtue, 
In  dowerless  Poverty  find  my  delight. 

"Although  the  mast  may  crack  beneath  the  South 
wind, 

I  will  not  rush  with  many  a  doleful  prayer 
To  barter  thus  my  vows,  lest  all  my  treasure 

From  Tyre  and  Cyprus  should  become  a  share 

"Of  what  the  greedy  sea  has  in  possession; 

Nay!  then,  protected  in  my  two-oared  boat, 
With  favoring  winds,  and  with  twin  Pollux  guiding 

Safe  through  the  /Egean  tempests  I  will  float." 

[48] 


TO  LEUCONOE.    1-11 

SEEK  not  to  learn  —  Leuconoe,  —  a  mortal  may 
not  know  — 

What  term  of  life  on  you  or  me  our  deities  bestow. 
The  Babylonian  soothsayer  consult  not;  better  bear 
Whatever  comes,  whether  to  you  more  winters  Jove 

shall  spare, 
Or  whether  this  may  be  the  last,  grinding  the  Tuscan 

sea 
On  yonder  rocks.    Even  as  we  talk,  time  envious 

shall  flee. 
Filter  your  wine,  be  wise,  and  clip  your  hopes  to 

life's  brief  span. 
Then  seize  today;  to-morrow  trust  as  little  as  you 

can. 


TO  NEOBUL&.    111-12 

A  HI  Unhappy  are  the  maidens,  who  love's  game 
are  kept  from  playing, 

Nor  in  mellow  wine  may  wash  away  their  cares; 
Who,  scared  by  scolding  uncles'  tongues,  their  terror 

are  displaying,  — 

But  from  you,  though,  Neobule,  Cupid  bears 
Your  basket  and  your  webs,  yet  all  the  zeal  you 

have  been  showing 
For  industrious  Minerva,  is  the  prey 
Of  fair  Hebrus,  Liparsean,  when  his  shoulders,  oiled 

and  glowing, 

He  has  bathed  in  Tiber's  waters.  Let  me  say 
As  a  horseman,  than  Bellerophon  he's  really  some 
thing  greater; 

Never  worsted  in  a  hand-fight,  nor  a  race. 
Skilled  to  shoot  the  flying  stag-herd  in  the  open,  — 

swift  he  later 
Snares  the  boar,  close-hidden  in  a  shady  place. 


[493 


THE  HARDY  YOUTH.    III-S 

THE  hardy  youth,  my  friends,  in  bitter  warfare 
To  narrow  poverty  must  learn  to  bend, 
And,  for  his  spear  a  horseman  to  be  dreaded, 

Courageous  Parthians  into  flight  must  send. 
And  he  must  try  all  dangerous  adventures, 

His  life  out  in  the  open  he  must  pass; 
The  warring  tyrant's  wife  and  growing  daughter 

Him  spying  from  their  hostile  walls,  "Alas," 
They  sigh  —  for  fear  the  royal  husband, 

Unskilled  in  warlike  arts,  should  dare  attack 
This  lion,  fierce  to  touch,  whom  bloody  anger 

Into  the  midst  of  slaughter  has  dragged  back. 
'Tis  sweet  and  fit  to  perish  for  one's  country, 

Death  follows  fast  upon  the  man  who  flees, 
Nor  spares  the  coward  backs  of  youth  retreating, 

Nor  saves  them  trembling  on  their  timid  knees, 
Valor,  of  shabby  failure  all  unconscious, 

Gleams  with  untarnished  honor  where  she  stands, 
Assuming  not,  nor  laying  down  her  emblems, 

As  now  the  gaping  populace  demands. 
Valor,  when  opening  Heaven  to  those,  who  dying 

Deserve  not  death,  by  paths  no  other  knows 
Points  out  the  way,  and  still  while  she  is  soaring, 

Her  scorn  for  crowds  and  humid  earth  she  shows. 
And  there's  a  sure  reward  for  loyal  silence. 

Him  I'll  forbid  under  my  roof  to  sit 
Who  has  divulged  the  Elusinian  mysteries, 

Nor  in  my  fragile  shallop  shall  he  flit 
Often  great  Jupiter,  when  once  neglected, 

The  wicked  near  the  innocent  has  put, 
But  punishment  to  overtake  the  guilty 

Has  rarely  failed,  though  she  is  lame  of  foot 


[50] 


TO  THE  STATE.    1-14 

OH!  Ship  of  State!  fresh  billows  to  sea  will  bear 
thee  back, 

Then  turn  about  and  bravely  toward  the  harbor  tack, 
Thou  see'st  that  thy  naked  sides  defending  oarsmen 
lack. 

Behold!    thy  mast  lies  shattered  before  the  swift 

south  wind, 
Listen!  the  yards  are  creaking,  the  ropes  no  longer 

bind, 
Strength  to  endure  the  boisterous  waves  thy  keel  can 

hardly  find. 

Now  all  thy  sails  are  ragged;   the  gods  are  swept 

away 
To  whom,  borne  down  by  peril,  thy  quaking  soul 

would  pray. 
Though  lofty  be  thy  lineage,  its  pride  is  vain  today. 

The  power  and  name  thou  boastest  are  now  of  no 

avail, 
Thy  stern  is  gayly  painted,  and  still  thy  seamen 

quail, 
Beware  lest  thou  art  made  the  sport  of  every  idle 

gale. 

Ah!  dearly  loved,  my  country;  my  fond  yet  heavy 

care! 
Thy  discords  lately  wearied  me,  but  now  I  breathe  a 

prayer 
That  thee  the  tides  of  faction,  the  glittering  rocks 

may  spare. 


[51] 


TO  APOLLO.    1-31 

WHAT  prays  the  poet  of  enshrined  Apollo? 
What  is  he  asking  for  with  lifted  hands, 
Pouring  a  fresh  libation  from  his  flagon?  — 

Not  fertile  crops  from  rich  Sardinian  lands,  — 
Not  the  fan-  herds  of  sultry,  damp  Calabria,  — 

Not  even  Indian  ivory  and  gold;  — 
Nor  meadows  that  the  Liris,  silent  river, 

With  sluggish  flow  has  nibbled,  as  it  rolled. 
Let  those  whom  Fortune  has  endowed  with  vine 
yards, 

With  the  Calenian  knife  their  grapevines  trim, 
Let  the  rich  merchant  from  his  golden  goblet 

Drink  wine  by  Syrian  traffic  bought  for  him. 
Dear  to  the  very  gods  he  three  times  yearly, 

Yes  four  times,  travels  the  Atlantic  Sea 
Unharmed.    But  I  —  I  feed  myself  on  olives, 

Ay,  succory  and  soft  mallows  are  for  me. 

Let  one  enjoy  sound  health  and  my  possessions  — 

Son  of  Latona,  grant  to  me,  I  pray, 
With  a  sane  mind  an  old  age  all  unsullied, 

Nor  let  my  gift  —  my  lyre  —  be  taken  away. 


TO  DIANA.    111-22 

DIANA,  Protector  of  mountain  and  wood, 
Who  when  three  times  invoked,  hast  so  well 

understood, 
And  young  mothers  in  child-birth  hast  rescued  from 

death, 

Goddess,  triply  endowed  I 

Let  this  tree  overhanging  my  house  here,  this  pine 
Be  for  thee,  that  each  year  I  shall  consecrate  thine, 
Happy  still  —  with  the  blood  of  a  boar,  whose  last 

breath, 
Planned  a  side-long  attack. 

[52] 


TO  MELPOMENE.    IV-3 

OH,  him  whom  at  birth  you  with  favor  regarded 
Melpomene!  never  an  Isthmian  game 
Shall  render  renowned,  though  he's  skilled  as  a 

boxer, 

Nor  shall  a  swift  horse  lead  him  onward  to  fame. 
Though  a  victor  he  rides  in  a  chariot  Achaian, 
Not  him  shall  the  fortune  of  war  ever  show. 
In  the  Capitol  wearing  the  garland  of  laurel 
Because  the  proud  threatenings  of  kings  he  laid 

low. 

But  every  stream  flowing  over  the  country 
Fertile  Tibur  around,  and  so  every  grove 
With  its  thick-growing  leaves  shall  ennoble  the  poet, 

In  ^Eolian  song  he  ennobled  shall  prove. 
The  offspring  of  Rome,  that  is  Queen  among  cities, 
Me  have  deemed  as  a  bard  to  be  worthy  a  place 
In  her  glorious  choir,  and  less  and  less  keenly 

Already  the  sharp  bite  of  Envy  I  trace. 
Oh  —  Pieris!  oh  Muse,  who  the  sweet  tone  con- 

trollest 

Of  the  golden-tongued  lyre,  able  too,  to  endow 
The  dumb  fishes  as  well,  if  it  happen  to  please  thee, 
With  the  notes  of  the  swan,  'tis  from  thee  it  comes 

now, 
That  I  by  the  finger  of  those  who  are  passing 

The  Lord  of  pur  own  Roman  lyre  am  shown, 
For  all  inspiration,  for  all  that  is  pleasing, 
If  it  happen  to  please,  thou  hast  made  it  my  own. 


[53] 


HORACE  AND  LYDIA.    1 1 1-9 

ONE  time  when  I  was  pleasing  to  you,  Lydia, 
And  when  no  other  youth,  preferred  to  me, 
Your  snowy  neck  could  with  his  arms  encircle, 
Then  happier  I  than  Persia's  King  may  be." 

"When  of  another  you  were  less  enamored, 
Nor  ranked  me  after  Chloe  in  your  love, 

Then  I,  your  Lydia,  of  wide  reputation, 
Than  Roman  Ilia  more  renowned  could  prove." 

"Now  Thracian  Chloe,  skilled  in  mellow  measures, 
And  expert  on  the  harp,  holds  me  her  slave, 

To  die  for  her  would  never  cause  me  terror, 

If  her  —  my  soul  —  the  Fates  alive  would  save." 

"Tis  Calais,  Ornytus'  son,  the  Thurian, 
Who  now  consumes  me  with  a  mutual  fire, 

Ah!  death  for  him  twice  over  would  I  suffer, 
Would  but  the  Fates  not  let  the  boy  expire." 

"What  if  our  former  love  to  us  returning, 
Us  in  a  stronger  yoke  should  join  again  I 

Should  I  unbar  the  door  to  cast-off  Lydia, 
And  give  up  fair-haired  Chloe,  ah,  what  then?" 

"Though  he  be  lovelier  than  a  constellation, 
Though  lighter  than  a  cork,  my  dear,  are  you, 

Than  stormy  Adriatic  more  uncertain, 
With  you  I'd  love  to  live,  die  gladly,  too." 


[54] 


TO  CENSORINUS.    IV-8 

WITH  kindly  thought  I'd  give,  Oh  Censorinus, 
Bowls  and  bronze  vases  pleasing  to  each 

friend ; 
Tripods  I  'd  offer,  prizes  of  brave  Grecians, 

And  not  the  worst  of  gifts  to  you  I'd  send 
Were  I,  forsooth,  rich  in  such  artist's  treasure 

As  Scopas  and  Parrhasius  could  convey, 
This  one  in  stone,  and  that  in  liquid  color, 

Skilled  here  a  man,  —  a  god  there  to  portray. 
But  mine  no  power  like  this,  nor  does  your  spirit 

Or  your  affairs  need  luxuries  so  choice. 
Songs  we  can  give,  and  on  the  gift  set  value, 

Songs  we  can  give,  and  you  in  songs  rejoice. 
Not  marble  carved  with  popular  inscriptions 

Whereby  the  spirit  and  the  life  return 
After  their  death  unto  our  upright  leaders, 

Nor  Hannibal's  swift  flight,  nor  threatenings  stern 
Thrown   back   on   him,   nor  flames  from  impious 
Carthage, 

Ever  more  clearly  pointed  out  the  praise 
Of  him  who,  after  Africa  was  conquered, 

Acquired  a  name,  than  did  the  Calabrian  lays. 
And  you  would  lose,  if  writings  should  be  silent, 

The  price  of  all  that  you  so  well  have  done. 
And  Romulus,  —  his  fame  had  envy  silenced  — 

Where  had  he  been  —  great  Mars  and  Ilia's  son? 
/Eacus,  rescued  from  the  Stygian  waters, 

The  genius,  the  favor,  and  the  tongue 
Of  mighty  bards  sent  to  the  blessed  islands, 

He  cannot  die,  whose  praise  the  Muse  has  sung. 
The  Muse  can  deify.    So  tireless  Hercules 

In  Jove's  desired  banquets  has  a  share. 
And  the  Tyndaridae's  clear  constellation 

Of  ships  wrecked  in  the  lowest  depths  takes  care. 
Liber,  his  brows  adorned  with  living  vine-leaf, 

Brings  to  good  issue  every  honest  prayer. 


[55] 


TO  THALIARCHUS.    1-9 

YOU  see  how  our  Soracte  now  is  standing 
Hoary  with  heavy  snow,  and  now  its  weight 
To  bear  the  struggling  woods  are  hardly  able, 

And  with  the  bitter  cold  the  streams  stagnate. 
The  cold  melt  thou  away,  oh,  Thaliarchus, 

By  heaping  logs  upon  thy  fire,  again 
Replenishing,  and  from  a  Sabine  flagon 

Wine  of  a  four  years'  vintage  draw  thou  then. 
Leave  to  the  gods  the  rest;  for  at  the  moment 

They  felled  the  winds  upon  the  boiling  sea 
That  battled  fiercely,  then  there  was  not  stirring 

Or  mountain-ash,  or  ancient  cypress  tree. 
Cease  thou  to  ask  what  is  to  be  to-morrow, 

The  day  that  Fortune  gives,  score  thou  as  gain. 
As  when  a  boy,  thou  shalt  not  scorn  love's  sweetness, 

Nor  smoothly  moving  dancers  shalt  disdain 
While  crabbed  age  from  thy  fresh  youth  is  distant. 

Now  in  the  Field  and  hi  the  Public  Square 
All  the  soft  whisperings  that  come  at  night-fall 

Shall  at  the  trysting  be  repeated  there. 
Now,  too,  the  tempting  laugh  from  a  far  corner 

That  must  the  maiden  lurking  there  betray  1 
Also  the  pledge  that  she  hi  feigned  resistance, 

Lets  from  her  arm  or  hand  be  taken  awayl 

TO  CHLOE.    I-2S 

AH  Chloe,  like  a  fawn  you  now  elude  me, 
Seeking  its  timid  dam  on  lonely  hills, 
Its  dam  who  not  without  an  idle  tremor 

At  breezes  in  the  forest  thrills. 
For  if  before  the  breeze  the  bushes  quiver 

With  rustling  leaves,  or  if  green  lizards  start 
Across  the  bramble,  then  it  is  it  trembles, — 

This  little  fawn  —  in  knees  and  heart. 
But  Chloe,  I  am  not  a  cruel  tiger, 

Nor  a  Giaetulian  lion,  thee  to  chase; 
And  now  that  thou  art  old  enough  to  marry, 

Beside  thy  mother  take  thy  place. 
[56] 


TO  FUSCUS.    1-22 

OH,  Fuscus,  he  whose  life  is  pure  and  upright, 
Wants  not  the  Moorish  javelin  nor  the  bow, 
Nor  may  he  need  the  quiver,  heavy  laden 

With  arrows  poisoned  for  the  lurking  foe. 
Whether  he  is  about  to  make  a  journey 

To  sultry  Libya,  or  the  unfriendly  height 
Of  Caucasus,  or  to  the  distant  places 

That  famed  Hydaspes  washes  in  his  flight. 
For  lately  me  a  wolf  fled  in  the  forest  — 

The  Sabine  forest,  as  my  Lalage 
I  sang  about,  —  beyond  my  boundaries  wandering, 

Care-free,  unarmed  —  the  creature  fled  from  me. 
Apulia,  land  of  soldiers,  never  nourished 

In  her  broad  woods  a  monster  of  such  girth, 
Nor  Mauritania,  arid  nurse  of  lions, 

To  such  a  one  has  ever  given  birth. 
Ah,  put  me  on  those  plains,  remote  and  barren, 

Where  not  a  tree  can  feel  the  summer  wind, 
And  grow  again  —  a  land  of  mist  eternal  — 

Whereover  Jupiter  still  broods,  unkind; 
Or  place  me  in  that  land  denied  man's  dwelling, 

Too  near  the  chariot  of  the  sun  above,  — 
Still  my  own  Lalage  so  sweetly  smiling, 

My  sweetly-speaking  Lalage  I'll  love. 

TO  VENUS.    111-26 

LATELY  was  I  to  gentle  maidens  suited, 
And  not  without  some  glory  did  contend, 
But  now  my  weapons  and  my  lute  made  useless 

For  contests,  on  this  wall  I  will  suspend, 
That  guards  the  left  side  of  our  sea-born  Venus; 

Here,  here,  place  you  my  gleaming  waxen  torch, 
My  levers  and  my  crow-bars  that  can  threaten 
The  doors  that  ought  to  open  on  this  porch. 
Oh,  Goddess,  thou  who  blessed  Cyprus  rulest, 
And  Memphis  ever  lacking  Thracian  snow, 
My  Queen,  in  passing,  with  thy  whip  uplifted 
Give  to  my  haughty  Chloe  just  one  blow. 

[57] 


A  PALINODE.    1-16 

OH,  daughter,  lovelier  than  your  lovely  mother, 
Whatever  punishment  you  may  desire 

Give  my  offending  verses;  in  the  fire 
Throw  them,  please  you,  or  in  the  Adriatic. 
Not  Dindymene,  no,  nor  even  Apollo 

So  shakes  the  minds  of  priests  within  the  shrine; 

Nor  so  disturbing  is  the  God  of  wine, 
Nor  Corybantes  doubling  their  shrill  cymbals, 
As  direful  fits  of  anger  that  are  frightened 

Neither  by  Noric  sword  nor  savage  flame, 

Nor  by  ship-wrecking  seas,  nor  them  can  tame 
Great  Jupiter  himself,  with  all  his  thunders. 
To  our  original  clay,  they  say  Prometheus 

Was  forced  to  add  a  portion  he  had  made 

Of  bits  from  every  creature,  and  he  laid 
In  human  hearts  rage  from  the  furious  lion. 
With  crushing  rum  rage  destroyed  Thyestes; 

And  as  a  final  cause  rage  may  be  known 

Why  mighty  cities  fell,  quite  overthrown, 
And  why  upon  their  walls  a  sneering  army 
Its  plowshare  drags  along.    But  keep  your  temper! 

Me,  too  in  my  sweet  youth  a  frenzied  heart 

Has  tempted  sorely,  and  its  maddening  dart 
Has  driven  me  to  write  impetuous  verses 
To  change  sad  things  for  brighter  I  am  seeking, 

And  since  my  offending  verses  I  retract, 

I  beg  of  you  in  turn  a  friendly  act, 
That  you  again  to  me  your  heart  give  over. 


[58] 


LASTING  FAME.    111-30 

\    MONUMENT  outlasting  brass  I  have  builded, 
l\.Higher  than  pyramids  in  their  crumbling  glory, 
That  no  devouring  storm,  nor  futile  North  wind 
Can  overthrow,  nor  years  in  long  succession, 
Nor  fleeting  seasons.     I  shall  not  wholly  perish. 
In  great  part  I'll  escape  the  funeral  pyre; 
And  lately  praised,  my  praise  will  go  on  growing 
To  latest  years.    As  long  as  Priest  and  Vestal 
Ascend  the  Capitol,  I  shall  be  mentioned 
Where  Aufidus  fierce  rages,  and  where  Daunus 
A  rustic  race  rules  in  an  arid  country. 
Great,  though  of  humble  birth,  I  the  first  poet 
To  write  in  Latin  rhythms  ^Eolian  lyrics, 
Take  pride,  Melpomene,  in  well-earned  merits, 
And  crown  me  willingly  with  Delphic  laurel. 


RELIGION.    I-S4 

GOD'S  mean    and    careless  servant  —  while    I 
wander 

Deep  in  the  madness  of  Philosophy,  — 
Now  backward  I  must  set  my  sail,  and  ponder 
Where  my  forsaken  course  retraced  shall  be. 
For  Jupiter,  who  with  his  glittering  fire 

So  often  cleaves  apart  the  threatening  clouds, 
His  winged  car  and  thundering  horses  higher 
Toward  air  has  driven  where  no  shadow  shrouds. 

Whereat  the  sluggish  earth,  each  vagrant  river,  — 

The  Styx,  and  hated  Tsenarus'  dread  abode, 
And  the  Atlantic  borders  shake  and  shiver. 

Ah  —  to  reverse  high  things  and  low,  our  God 
Is  able,  and  the  mighty  he  can  lower, 

The  obscure  can  raise.    From  this  man  Fortune 

steals 
The  crown  to  give  to  that  one;  —  in  her  power, 

Showing  with  hissing  wings  the  joy  she  feels. 

[59] 


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